Two Diamonds and a Stone
by Kerjack
Summary: Alayne Stone was not at all what she claimed to be, but none could know that yet. Her home was in a traitor's hands and her family scattered, but she was in an excellent position to gather powerful allies in the Vale. If she played the game as she hand seen others play it, perhaps she could reclaim all the Starks had lost. OC-centric. Post-A Dance With Dragons.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** My break after A Dragon of Duskendale didn't even last a week.

I didn't plan to be back to posting another story so soon or maybe ever again, but this idea ambushed me a day ago and I somehow found myself writing it. This fic is even less planned out than my previous one had been when I started it, but I suppose there is no harm in giving it a whirl.

This story will have a lot of content from the Sansa Stark/Alayne Stone preview chapter of The Winds of Winter, so make sure to check that out (an online version is easy to find via google if you haven't already read it). It has been a good while since I read the books, but I will try to keep my facts straight from the events already published. Afterwards I imagine it is at my discretion. There will likely be some show elements thrown in as well down the line. As A Dragon of Duskendale was centered around an OC, this fic will likewise feature a character from my imagination. I know that isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I urge you to at least give it a try!

I don't truly know where this story will go, but at least we'll all be surprised together. Please leave me a review if you have the time, and I hope you enjoy.

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The rain fell in heavy droves, soaking man and beast and cobblestone. It carried with it the smell of the sea, crisp and fresh with subtle undertones of seaweed and algae, as well as a chill that had been increasing steadily over the past months. Other aromas, neither of rain nor of the ocean, hung heavy over Gulltown, resonating from the always busy market square; Valemen merchants were not easily deterred from any chance to make a profit, much less by something so trivial as a rainstorm. The booths and shops were still a beehive of activity, consumers pulling the hoods of their heavy cloaks over their heads as they hustled from shop to booth to shop, haggling with round-faced men over dragons and coppers. The docks were likewise busy no doubt, traders from all the Free Cities and other exotic venues loading or unloading their cargos of jade or furs or precious metals.

No, rain didn't stop the flow of trade in Gulltown, but he nearly took it as an excuse to forsake this unpleasant duty. _At least I spotted Ronald in one of his shops; the man knows what his daughter is doing and with who, so he clearly doesn't care, but I still find it awkward when he's present when I flush my cousin out of his daughter's bedchambers._

Ser Hadrian Hardyng rode at a slow pace up the cobblestones streets, hood pulled over hair the color of cornsilk. No one paid him much mind, walking or riding by the broad figure atop the brown palfrey with little or no notice of him. That suited Hadrian just fine, for undue attention rarely did anyone any good. As far as anyone was concerned he was just another knight going about his business, a squire trailing along behind.

That's what Ser Hadrian preferred. It was also the truth, which made things pretty simple.

It had been raining consistently enough that a miniscule stream of water had begun to run down the side of Larra's Street as it began to rise in the incline towards Larra's Hill, random bits of debris occasionally floating along on the small currents path towards the sea. Hadrian didn't know who Larra was, but she must have been quite the figure in Gulltown's early history. There was a street, a hill and a merchant's square named after her, having carried the woman's name for millennia. Perhaps she had been a Shett, the First Man family that had once been Kings of Gulltown, or maybe a Grafton, the Andal bloodline that had ruled it since betraying Osgood III Shett after allying with him against a Royce king. It didn't truly matter, for a hill was a hill and a street was a street no matter who they were named after, but Hadrian had always been mildly curious.

 _Perhaps Larra was a particularly promiscuous woman, in which case I'm certain there will one day be a Saffron Hill as well._

He knew the route well by now, having made this trek more than thrice over the last half a year or so. He'd made it so many times, in fact, that Big Bolson at the door was awaiting him the stables instead of his customary position in the foyer of the cobblestone mansion of Gulltown's richest spice merchant. Big Bolson was certainly a big man, six and a half feet of thick muscle and thicker beard. The black broken wheel of House Waynwood was stretched across his green surcoat, the handle of a longaxe peeking over his right shoulder. He said nothing as Hadrian trotted his brown into the small stable; neither did the stablemaster, as used to these visits as Bolson was and already moving to tend to the knight and his squire's horses.

Hadrian swung out of his saddle, heavy boots hitting the hay strewn floor of the stables. With a groan he stretched, his shoulders and back popping, before speaking to the stablemaster. "Just give them a quick rubdown and bag of oats, and prepare Harrold's palomino and the horses of his guardsmen. We'll be leaving again soon."

The stablemaster gave a quick nod, gesturing towards one of his young grooms to hurry after the feed. "Yes Ser."

The broad knight clapped him lightly on the back before turning to his squire, a reedy boy of two and ten. "Albar, give him a hand. I'll be back shortly." The lordling from Fair Isle nodded, sliding off his black palfrey to set to work. "Good lad." Still twisting his torso in an attempt to work the stitch out of his back, Ser Hadrian started at a slow walk towards the mansion, hood still pulled over his head to fend off the rain.

Big Boson fell into step beside him, standing a good four or five inches taller than the knight though they were of equal build through the chest and arms. "I wondered when you'd show up, Ser. We've been in Gulltown for two whole days, and he's spent nearly every hour of it here."

"Lady Anya opted to let him have his fun before sending me after him. I imagine she hopes it will keep my cousin relatively settled for our time at the Gates of the Moon, though I myself doubt it."

Big Boson wisely didn't comment his own opinion. "I suppose I shall rouse the men, then. We'll be awaiting you in the courtyard."

Hadrian nodded. "Make it quick, Bolson. We both know Lady Anya despises being made to wait."

The two split as they neared the entrance to the mansion, the captain of the guards going right towards the guest housing while Hadrian stepped under the shelter of the portico, columns of marble on either side of him. Ronald, the baseborn owner of this admittedly beautiful two-story stack of stone and dark wood, had made a fortune with a shipping company he started with only the small fishing boat his father had left him. Now the merchant owned a fleet of over one hundred trading galleys and a dozen warships to protect them, trading in exotic goods from as far away as Qohor and the Summer Isles. His mansion reflected his wealth, his sprawling two-story residence surrounded by gardens of daylilies and roses, a hedge maze, pavilions and marble statues. It was the crown jewel of Larra's Hill, which was covered from base to peak with the homes of Gulltown's merchants.

Ser Hadrian always felt out of place here, his own upbringing much more humble. House Hardyng had commanded their small but hardy castle of Hardvale and the lands accompanying it for centuries, but they were only landed knights. _Powerful_ landed knights, for they commanded near five hundred men and had a score of other knights sworn to them, but landed knights all the same. They could not deliver justice on their own land, instead having to appeal to House Waynwood, who held dominion over their lands. Though not poor, they were far from rich, and Hadrian felt uncomfortable surrounded by such blatant displays of wealth.

It was worse when he stepped inside.

The chandelier was Tyroshi crystal, the stairs made of goldenheart wood from the summer Isles. More statues, at least one from each of the Free Cities, lined the halls leading to either side, occupying pedestals in evenly-spaced recesses. Rugs from Myr, torch sconces with silver finishes…wealth was in every corner, and Ronald was fond of telling guests all about it; Hadrian only knew so much about the details of the furnishing because he had heard the spiel from the fat merchant a dozen times. The knight was very grateful he wasn't here now, for if he were Hadrian had no doubt he'd hear it all again.

 _Perhaps if he had been as adamant about protecting his daughter's virtue as he was flaunting his wealth I wouldn't be here. If only the Seven had so blessed me._

Neither of Ronald's guards guarding the entrance—when you were filthy rich, you needed to take precautions to protect that wealth—bothered to follow the knight as he started up the stairs. They'd both seen him here enough times to hardly even notice his arrival anymore, and the servants were much the same. Hadrian climbed the steps of goldenheart and walked down the second-story hall unbothered, his only interactions an occasional servant begging his pardon.

Hadrian thanked the Seven when he heard no sinly sounds coming from Saffron's chambers; he'd interrupted his cousin and the merchant's daughter amidst their lovemaking more than once, and his skin had nearly crawled off his body each time. Even so Hadrian knocked loudly on the thick oaken doors, raising his baritone voice. "Harrold, it is time to go."

A sleepy voice answered him from the other side of the doors a few moments later, feminine and certainly not his cousin's. "He'll be just a moment, Ser Hadrian." The broad-shouldered knight ground his teeth at Saffron's voice; the girl had a bold promiscuity that any good woman would fine shameful, but drove young men who thought with the wrong part of their body absolutely mad. It had certainly pulled in Harrold. _But then again, anything with breasts will pull in Harrold._

Hadrian loved his cousin well enough, but the lad was as wild at heart as any noble in Westeros, and had been since he was three and ten—Hadrian had been saving his younger cousin from angry fathers and stilted lovers since Harry had figured out what his manhood could do. He found it shameful for a potential future Lord of the Vale to make a habit of sleeping with the daughters of future bannermen, but then again he also understood the forces that drove men of that age. He'd felt them himself once.

Then he had met Mary Moore, and everyone else seemed completely insignificant. She had been gone for four years now, yet Hadrian still loved her as fiercely as he ever had.

Harry took his sweet time in opening the door, but Hadrian had known he would. His cousin gave him a cocky grin when he finally did, his tunic hanging loose and untucked, sandy hair messy. Hadrian knew why young women such as Saffron were so drawn to the young heir to the Vale; Harry had deep blue eyes and dimples when he smiled, and his frame was muscled from years of training at arms. Clean-limbed with an aquiline nose, he _looked_ the part of a future Lord Paramount, even if he acted like the careless lad a year shy of twenty that he was.

Though they shared a grandfather, Hadrian and Harrold only had a marginal likeness. Hadrian was six years his cousin's elder, the youth of nine and ten having been replaced by the harder lines of five and twenty. They shared the same Hardyng eyes and both were on the tall side, but there the physical similarities all but ceased. Harry had sandy blonde hair and an aquiline nose, while Hadrian's hair was cornsilk and his own nose had been broken twice. Harry was lean and agile, while his elder cousin was broad as a bull and more reliant on brute force than speed. Even so, they were even more unalike in personality; Harry the Heir was gregarious and playful, while Hadrian was quieter and serious. The younger cousin loved to tell stories and boast, while the elder instead listened and chimed in only when he deemed it necessary.

Harry slept with everything that had two breasts and a heartbeat, while Hadrian hadn't touched a woman since Mary.

Yet Hadrian still loved his cousin, for it was certainly hard not to. "Boson and your guardsmen should be near to ready. It is time."

Harry's grin turned into a smile as he opened the door wider. A massive, four-poster bed resided in the room behind him, a very pregnant girl with dark hair tangled in its sheets. Hadrian let his eyes fall on Saffron only a moment before he looked back to Harry, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. His cousin laughed, slapping Hadrian lightly on the shoulder. "Sometimes I wonder if there is _any_ warm blood in your veins, cousin."

"There is plenty in Lady Anya's, and we will both feel it full force if you don't get a move on."

Harry laughed again—laughter came easy and often to the young knight—and turned back towards the room. "Aye, I imagine you're right. Give me just a moment. Step in if you wish; Saffron has a wonderful view of the docks."

Hadrian didn't, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as Harry rummaged around Saffron's floor for the rest of his clothing. The merchant's daughter chattered at her lover, one hand on the swelling belly where their bastard child was growing, but Hadrian paid her words no mind. He wasn't fond of the girl or her of him, though Hadrian had always treated her with respect. Saffron was as shrewd of mind as she was promiscuous of body, and knew quite well what her lover's cousin thought of her. _The Seven say you must be kind to women; they never said you have to like all of them._

Harry finally left her with a kiss and vow to return soon, closing the doors of her chambers behind him, his clothing and hair still ruffled. By the time the two men of House Hardyng stepped back into the pouring rain and the cold of the outside he had corrected both, looking as noble as any man ever did. His personal heraldry was embroidered on his tunic, the red and white diamonds of House Hardyng and black wheel of House Waynwood in the first and third quarters of a shield outline, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn in the second and fourth. The same color scheme decorated both his shield and the trappings of his warhorse, whereas Hadrian had kept to the simple field of diamonds. Then again, Hadrian's mother was a Branfield, whereas Harrold's had been of Arryn blood.

Harry nudged his cousin in the ribs as he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. "One of these days you'll warm up to Saffron, Hadrian."

The elder cousin shook his head slightly. "Not bloody likely."

Harry only laughed again. "I don't understand your issue with her. She will be the mother of my child for the sake of the Seven."

"Your _second_ and _bastard_ child, and don't take the gods in vain. Unlike you, I'm not so certain the child is yours in any case. You told me yourself she was no maid when first you had her, even if I wished you hadn't shared such detail."

"Oh, the child is mine alright. Saffron may not be the chastest of maidens, but she knew what she had when she took me into her bed. There is a good reason why she never grew with child until she and I became entangled. I assumed you would admire her shrewdness. Besides, my knack for procreation isn't hurting anyone."

Hadrian shrugged, though he imagined Harry had the right of it. "Is it not? I imagine there is a girl at the Gates of the Moon who will most certainly be hurt when she learns of it, assuming she hasn't already."

 _That_ shattered Harry's good mood quite quickly. "That is damnable folly. I am to be the future Lord of the Vale; the daughter of a lord as minor as Petyr fucking Baelish is not a suitable match, much less a _bastard_ daughter."

Hadrian personally agreed with his young cousin, but he had always played the role of opposing advocate. "You are a _potential_ future Lord of the Vale, not a guaranteed one. Besides, Lord Baelish is Lord of Harrenhal _and_ the Lord Paramount of the Trident; those are no minor lordships in themselves, much less when together."

Harry snorted as they neared the stables, the sound of creaking leather and muffled voices coming from within. "Hollow lordships the both of them; they were granted to him by King Joffrey, and King Joffrey is dead. My father should never have agreed to this match, even if Baelish _is_ the so-called Lord Protector of the Vale."

"Your father is sworn to Lady Anya, and Lady Anya supported this match. Ser Wallace was only doing as any good bannermen would."

Harry wasn't finished pouting, grumbling to himself as he stepped into the dryness of the stable. Even so, Hadrian heard part of what he had to say. "Uncle _Gillum_ would never have agreed to it."

 _Aye, in that you have the right of it._ Ser Wallace Hardyng and his younger brother Gillum were as opposite as Hadrian and Harry were. Wallace was cold and serious, whereas Gillum had been as hot-blooded as Harry. _Our fathers could have switched sons; I'm more like Uncle Wallace than Harry will ever be, and Harry is more like my father than I could ever dream of being._ Gillum had been a fierce, lively man who took whatever he wanted, having married Leah Branfield and had Hadrian before his elder brother had even thought of marrying Dahlia Waynwood, the daughter of Alys Arryn. He would have argued viciously against any of his blood marrying the bastard daughter of one of the poorest lords in the Vale.

But Ser Gillum Hardyng had died on the walls of Pyke two and ten years earlier, and Ser Wallace had followed his liege Lady's lead. Still, Hadrian regretted bringing the bastard girl—this Alayne Stone—up; Harry's surliness would make for a grating ride.

Hadrian's squire Albar Farman was holding the reins of Breeze, Hadrian's plain but surefooted palfrey mare. His warhorse, the huge blood bay he had unoriginally named Charger, was being brought along with Lady Anya's retinue from Ironoaks. The destrier was well-suited to battle, but his gate would jar Hadrian's hipbones into his chest if he rode him every day. The knight took the reins with a nod to the young boy, who scurried onto his own black palfrey as Hadrian swung atop Breeze. Harry mounted his palomino gelding, giving neither the stablemaster nor Big Boson and the guardsmen so much as a glance before he kicked him into action, trotting out of the stable into the pouring rain. Hadrian flipped the stablemaster a copper and followed.

Hadrian moved Breeze into position beside Harry while the others followed along behind, two of the guards holding banners, one of House Hardyng and the other of House Waynwood. The elder knight reached out to ruffle Harry's hair, causing the younger to jerk his head away with a muttered curse. "Where are we to meet my kinswoman?"

"Lady Anya should have already left Ironoaks. We are to rendezvous with her a few day's ride from the Gates of the Moon."

Harry kicked his horse into a gallop, thundering out of the yard of his lover's mansion and down Larra's Street. _This is going to be a long trip._ With a sigh, Hadrian rode after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the follows, favorites and reviews. Y'all rock.

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Anya Waynwood had brown hair that was steadily going grey, with crow's feet around her eyes and the loose skin of age beneath her chin. Despite those effects and the subtle others that age had played upon her, the Lady of Ironoaks carried herself in a way that left no doubts as to who was in command. Her retinue to a man bowed their head in deference as she descended the stairs of the small inn a day's ride west and south of the Bloody Gate, her eldest son and grandson proceeding her. Hadrian and Harrold did the same despite being weary and chilled from their ride, bowing heads of sand and cornsilk as the Lady approached.

Anya had a piercing, commanding voice that nearly echoed off the smoke-stained rafters of the inn, sharp enough to cut through any armor. "Ser Hadrian, I always thought of you as a punctual man, yet you're a day late."

Ser Hadrian looked up to meet the woman's dark eyes, blue on brown. "Begging my lady's pardon, but I believe this was the agreed upon day."

Lady Waynwood clearly didn't agree. "This _morning_ was the agreed upon day. It is well into the evening, and thusly you are a day late."

The knight bowed his head again in deference, fighting the small smile trying to gain purchase on his lips. "As my lady says. You have my utmost apologies."

Her words were sharp, but Hadrian knew the Lady of Ironoaks wasn't truly angry. If she were, the roof of the inn would have already been pulled down atop Hadrian's head. "I shall consider them, though I warn you not to keep me waiting again." She took her gaze from Hadrian to Harry as she came to a stop in front of them. "I am no fool; I imagine any delays were _your_ fault as opposed to Ser Hadrian's. I would have thought we had raised you better at Ironoaks than to keep your liege waiting."

Harry gave his kinswoman a dimpled, disarming smile. "I am pleased to see you as well, Aunt Anya." Lady Anya wasn't actually his aunt, instead a cousin several times removed, but Harry had always called her thus since being sent to foster at Ironoaks at the age of seven. Hadrian had joined them there some years later, when Harry's rambunctiousness had gotten almost too much for the iron-willed woman to handle.

As it was Lady Anya snorted. "I suppose the day is lost; no Waynwood is fool enough to be caught on the High Road after dark, even the small piece we have to cross, and we will not come near to making the Bloody Gate before dusk is upon us. Innkeep," she barked, turning to the ferret-like man standing behind the counter. "Food and ale for these blatant idlers, and another room in addition to the ones I have already rented."

The man nodded, clearly pleased that the Lady of the Ironoaks would be extending her stay. As sharp-tongued and gruff as she may appear, Anya always paid more than fair prices, and the man's inn would be full to bursting with Waynwood and Hardyng retainers. "Of course, m'lady." His wife and daughter were already making for the kitchens, his sons outside to tend the horses. Hadrian glanced to Harry, seeing his younger cousins eyes were following the innkeeper's daughter as she hurried away. _Bloody hell I'm tired of that._ None too lightly Hadrian elbowed his cousins ribs, prompting a grunt of pain and glare from the younger Hardyng.

Lady Anya raised an eyebrow at the antics but said nothing, instead gesturing for them to sit. Her grandson Ser Roland, of an age with Harry and the heir to the heir of Ironoaks, pulled her chair out for her before taking his own seat. Roland's father Ser Morton, horse-faced like his son and brothers and the future Lord of Ironoaks, joined them at the table, as did his youngest brother, the stuttering Ser Wallace Waynwood. While Hadrian didn't dislike any of them, he found Roland even more boastful than Harry and Morton a fair bit too haughty for his taste, and liked their matriarch Lady Anya far more than he liked either of them. Lantern-jawed Ser Wallace could drive you to fall on your own sword with his stuttering, but he was honorable and kind, if somewhat boyish still; Hadrian liked him the best out of any of Lady Anya's brood, her four daughters included.

The fare of honeyed chicken, hard cheese and black ale was simple but filling, particularly after days of salt-beef and hard biscuits on the road. The Lady of Ironoaks allowed Hadrian and Harry to eat, making light conversation with her sons and grandson, and occasionally the innkeeper or his daughters when they appeared to refill ales. This small inn, named the Drunken Squire, wasn't the most popular in the Vale, located at the foot of a trail leading up to the High Road that was riddled with mountain clansmen raiders. Only the heavily armed dare risk the trail since raiding was particularly fierce on it, meaning only retinues and parties of armed lords utilized it with any true frequency. Despite its infrequent patronage, however, the beds were clean and the food palatable, which was much more than could be said for many inns. It was a favorite of Lady Anya's, and Hadrian had come to have a fondness for it in his years of service to her.

Harry chattered around a mouthful of cheese; he could be the perfectly mannered, impeccable lord when he wished, but when surrounded by those he was comfortable with he could resort to uncivilized actions with frequency. "It was raining in Gulltown, but that has turned to light snows the higher we travel."

"Aye," Lady Anya replied. "Donnel has written me that it has intermittently snowed at the Bloody Gate Moon for near a moon's turn." Hadrian heard the pride in her voice at the mention of her middle son, who had replaced Ser Brynden Tully as the Knight of the Gate. Once travelers made it through, the road was safe for the short ride on to the Gates of the Moon, and the position of defender of the gate was a high honor.

"W-w-w-winter i-is u-u-pon us," stammered out Wallace, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Aye, that it is," said Roland, voice strong and confident. "I've never ridden in a tourney in the snow before."

Harry shot a mischievous glance at his friend. "You've hardly ever ridden in a tourney at all."

Ser Hadrian spoke quietly after a long gulp of ale. "Neither have you."

His cousin chuckled mildly as he cut another chunk off of the chicken's breast. "We can't all be The Falcon Knight reborn like _you_ , Hadrian."

The others at the table laughed save for Lady Anya; Sers Wallace, Morton and Harry in jest, Roland in something nearing contempt. Hadrian looked up at the grandson of his lady as he chewed, saying nothing. Roland tried to hold his gaze, but lasted for only a few moments before looking away, saying something of little importance to his father to cover his backing down. Hadrian was only a decent jouster in truth, nothing to write stories about; he wouldn't embarrass himself in the lists, and on a good day he could prove a real challenger, but he was no Aemon the Dragonknight. He had received Breeze as a ransom for a Reach lordling's armor and sword, and had yet to compete in a tournament where he had to borrow money to ransom back his own gear, but the melee circles were much more his specialty, where men fought and clawed in the mud and grime. His strength was superior to most men, and while his swordsmanship was only average, his skill with mace and longaxe was far above. Roland knew all of this; he liked to pick at Hadrian over jousting, but he had only tried to face him in single combat once.

Hadrian had downed him within a few short, one-sided minutes. Ever since, the lad steered well clear.

 _It's of no true malice towards me of course. Roland is a young lad and skilled at arms, and he's trying to cope with the thought that there is someone better. I was much like him myself, once. I hope for his sake he does well at the Gates of the Moon._

He himself would not be competing in the tournament that would produce young Lord Robert Arryn's 'Brotherhood of the Winged Knights', something that sounded to Hadrian to be a knockoff of the Kingsguard. Eight positions as bodyguards to the sickly son of Jon Arryn would be awarded to the top competitors at the tourney, who would then serve the young Lord for three years. From the sounds of things many of the strongest knights in the Vale were travelling to compete, for Lysa Arryn, she who had so recently been murdered by a love-struck musician by the name of Marillion, had kept them out of the War of the Five Kings. Many were chomping at the bit to prove their skill at arms, mainly young men who hadn't seen true battle. Harry, Roland and Wallace were among them, as were plenty of lordlings from all across the Vale of Arryn. Roland had a true chance of winning a position through the joust while Harry and Wallace were unlikely to do so; the competition would be fierce. Mychel Redfort, Lyn Corbray, Littlefinger's man Lothor Brune…they were all more skilled than any of the boys seated around Hadrian. Hadrian himself could likely hold his own against them, but not on horseback; he'd have to bring them to the ground, and even then Corbray was a superior fighter.

But Hadrian wasn't going to compete in any case, so he wasted no more time planning out strategies he would never use. He had no desire to see blood; he'd fought as a fourteen-year-old squire during the Greyjoy Rebellion, slaying more than his share of Ironborn while fighting alongside his mentor, Lord Damon Marbrand. He and the Lord of Ashemark had helped to raid Pyke alongside the Northmen and King Robert Baratheon, capturing the same walls that would claim Hadrian's father's life.

No, he'd seen enough blood to suit his lifetime, a fair portion of it covering Ser Gillum's broken body. He supposed that was an odd thing for a knight, men who made their living on their ability to take lives. Just because Hadrian was good at it didn't men he needed to do it with wanton abandon, though he would certainly draw more blood if the need arose.

In any case, he had Harry to look after. His younger cousin was far past being a man grown, but he still had boyish aspects to him and needed a tempering force. Ser Hadrian had _been_ that force, ostensibly being accepted into Ironoaks to serve Lady Anya but in truth sent there from Hardvale by his uncle—Harrold's father—to keep the boy from doing anything too stupid. He had failed in some aspects, for his cousin already had one bastard child and had another on the way by a different woman, but he'd pulled Harry out of more trouble than he hadn't.

Lady Anya was watching him, having caught the short and wordless exchange between Hadrian and her grandson. He knew she'd have questions about what he'd seen in Gulltown, but now was not the time to ask them. It would do no good to openly show Harrold that his patron was having him effectively spied upon, though the young knight likely had figured it out. Harry was brash but not stupid, and Lady Anya always seemed to know what he had been into. That was, of course, because Hadrian told her, and his younger cousin knew it. Still, the lad accepted the supervision better than many others would. Hadrian was proud of him for it.

It was near dark when their meal finished, the four Waynwoods and two Hardyngs engaging in light chatter as the younger men drank more and more ale. It didn't take long before the three of them, Wallace, Roland and Harry, made their war from the table and out of the inn, likely to talk about the bravery they would show at the tournament or to brag about conquests in and out of the bedsheets.

Young men all. It left the adults to their conversation, and Lady Anya wasted no time. "What do you think of this spicer's daughter? Do you still find her false?"

 _I never found her_ false _per se, but I suppose any type of doubt is a conspiracy in this world. Everything else has gone to hell, honesty and truth might as well go too._ "As I've reported many times, my lady, she is a whore under the guise of half a noble. From what I've gleaned in Gulltown, she fancies herself the next Lady of the Vale."

Ser Morton spoke, having changed from the indulgent, laughing father to the future lord in an instant. "And Harrold? Does he think her much the same?"

Ser Hadrian looked down into his ale as he swirled it around the wooden cup, picking his brain for the proper choice of words. The Waynwoods had all but raised Harry, and any report _too_ disparaging might give mild insult, but they deserved the truth, and Hadrian didn't make a habit of giving less than that. "Harry is enamored with anything that will spread its legs for him, and while he might fancy himself more truly entangled with Saffron than he has any of the others, I think it is but a passing affection. It will likely be as it was with Cissy—the effects of childbirth on Saffron's body will make him lose interest." At least that is what Hadrian hoped; the big knight had liked Cissy much more than he liked Saffron, though the Seven knew Harry was much too highborn for either girl. "This new betrothed of his will certainly assist with that."

Hadrian cocked an eyebrow at Lady Anya, waiting. Hadrian didn't understand the sudden betrothal to Littlefinger's bastard any more than Harry did; Lady Anya had ridden from Ironoaks with the intent of driving Littlefinger from the Vale, and came back as half of a betrothal agreement. His lady hadn't explained it to him yet, and when she merely stared back, Hadrian knew she wasn't going to explain it to him then, either. With a sigh he lifted his glass, killing the remnants of his ale. "Harry is upset at the betrothal, even if he didn't let on tonight. If he lets it fester even longer than he already has, his first interaction with this Alayne Stone may prove less than successful. He'll bear watching at the tournament, and may need a few harsh reminders of his manners and noble upbringing."

Lady Anya nearly smiled at him. "That'll be your duty, Ser Hadrian."

"I supposed as much. Do you truly intend to let Harry compete?"

"You told me yourself he isn't likely to do well enough to be selected."

"Aye, but that is when I thought you wouldn't run the chance of Baelish stealing the heir to the Vale out from under you. No offense meant, my lady."

Her eyes tightened, but there was no more chill in her voice than normal. "None taken. Harry will not win the lists, and if by some fluke it appears he might, we will handle the situation then. Baelish is a bold thief, and I fully expect some sort of plot from the man, but several agreements have been made and he seems intent to honor them."

"As long as they suit his purposes," chimed in Morton, mustache quivering.

"Aye, as long as they suit his purposes." Her gaze turned half glare, though not one directed at Hadrian. "Then again, Littlefinger holds the advantage as long as he has more information than we do."

Hadrian smirked lightly. "Then I imagine we had best get used to a disadvantage, if the rumors of Baelish's spy network are true."

Lady Anya didn't smirk, lightly or otherwise. "I don't like being at a disadvantage; I've been in the weaker position too many times to this mocking bird as it is. We know nothing of his daughter, not truly, though I've met her and spoken on a few occasions. I need a man to find out more about her; Harry will only care enough to see if she'll please him in bed, and my sons and I will be watched too intently."

He had known where that was leading nearly before the conversation began. He didn't want to be forced to make the acquaintance of some girl the world hadn't known existed a year prior just for the stakes of whatever game his liege was playing, but he knew he wouldn't have a choice in the matter. "I'm sworn to your house. I'll be watched intently as well."

"You're known across the Vale as Harry's protector and confidant; any attempt by you to try and integrate yourself with Littlefinger's daughter will only be seen as your cousinly concern for the happiness of your ward." Hadrian opened his mouth to argue, but Lady Anya waved her hand. "I will not broker argument. Befriend her, find out what she is truly like and what her father's true intents are." The Iron Lady actually did smile her rare smile this time. "Cheer up, Ser Hadrian. You'll find you like her well enough anyway."

Hadrian sighed once more. "As my lady commands." Reaching across the table, he grabbed Lady Anya's untouched ale and raised it into the air. "To Alayne Stone, my dearest friend in all the seven kingdoms."

 _At least she isn't named after a bloody spice._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Surprise! I am not dead, nor is this story.

Sorry for the obscenely long wait, though I won't promise it won't happen again. Thank you all for the follows and reviews, as well as for your patience. Y'all rock.

The first half of this was written like half a year ago, when the Sansa sample chapter of _The Winds of Winter_ was still available. Since then it has been taken down, so I'll have to write from memory of the events it contained for the next little while, as I did the second half of **this** chapter. Many lines were borrowed directly from it, so all credit to GRRM and HBO and whoever else it is required to give credit to.

As always, I hope you enjoy and _review_ this update!

* * *

 _She's certainly fair enough. How did Petyr bloody Baelish have anything to do with the conception of_ that?

Alayne Stone was in no way what Hadrian had been expecting her to be. The big knight had been anticipating a homely, sharp-featured lass, one short and slightly built like her father. He was wrong, so horribly wrong. Alayne Stone was fair of face, fair enough to stop many a man in his tracks; it _would_ have stopped Hadrian had he not been astride Breeze. Her build was average for a woman, but her height was a fair bit above. Vivid, brilliant blue eyes peered out at them from above high cheekbones, fair skin tinted red from the cold. Brown hair cascaded over each shoulder and down her back, over the cloak of cloth and fur she wore. She was beautiful; any man could agree upon that.

 _Even harry can find no fault in her appearance, no matter her means of birth or her father._ That pleased Hadrian, not only for Harry's sake but for his own selfish ones. His cousin's mood and temperament had plummeted deeper with each stride they drew closer to the Gates of the Moon, so much so that not even Roland, who was Harry's chief companion of mischief, had been able to draw so much as a smile from him. It had been bad enough that Hadrian, he who was even-keeled about everything and who understood and sympathized with Harry's plight, had found it difficult to not snap back at the moody heir to the Vale. Lady Anya on the other hand had no problem with berating Harry, having given him a tongue-lashing like the ones she used to give him as a child when he'd proven too testy for her. It had done nothing to improve Harrold's mood, and it had fallen to Hadrian to pick up the slack and keep the heir in line. _Unwillingly, I might add._

But seeing the girl…well, that should cheer up _some_ part of Harry at the very least.

It wasn't the beautiful bastard that formally greeted them as they rode under the raised portcullis, but instead the other figure standing beside her. Myranda Royce was no plain lass herself, being short, fleshy and buxom with a charming face. She too was a pretty woman, though she was a rumple sack when compared to Littlefinger's daughter, and no maiden to boot. She'd widowed herself, albeit unintentionally, when her husband Ser Harwin Wydman had died in the marital bed. Randa Royce had spent the time since keeping the Gates of the Moon for her father, Ser Nestor. The High Steward of the Vale had once put her forth as a match for Harrold, though Anya had refused.

 _A widowed woman is no true match for Harry the heir, but a bastard daughter of a brothel keeper is perfectly acceptable. I am fond of Lady Anya, but it is times like these when I question her thought processes._

Myranda greeted them with a large smile. "Lady Anya. Welcome to the Gates of the Moon."

His liege lady was nothing if not formal, voice crisp and clear. "Lady Myranda. Lady Alayne." Hadrian hung back to her left as the Lady of Ironoaks introduced first Roland, then Wallace, and then Harry. It took him off guard when she beckoned towards him with a wave of her hand. "And finally Ser Hadrian Hardyng, a loyal sword and Harrold's cousin." _Ah yes, friendship and all of that. It's hard to be her best friend if she doesn't know my name._

Hadrian urged Breeze forward a few steps, nodding at both ladies. Myranda returned that with a nod of her own and a sultry smile, but Alayne didn't spare him so much as a glance, for her brilliant blue eyes were on Harry. Wallace stammered out a question, one that was answered by the Royce woman without a notice to his impediment, but Hadrian paid little mind to the conversations that erupted beyond ensuring he wasn't required to engage in them. Instead he watched alternately Alayne and Harry, the girl nearly staring a hole into his cousin while said cousin didn't even deign to look in the poor girl's direction. _Poor form, cousin, poor form._

Alayne only looked away from her betrothed when Roland dismounted his gelding and addressed her directly. "I had heard the Littlefinger's daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me she was a thief."

The girl's voice was as sweet and beautiful as the rest of her. "You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!"

"Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?" Hadrian couldn't help but scoff at that, though he managed to do it quietly. _You've never had a heart._

Wallace said much the same, prompting a slight exchange of insults between uncle and nephew while Randa Royce spoke with Lady Anya. "My lord father has assigned you rooms in the East Tower, but I fear your knights will need to share a bed. The Gates of the Moon were never meant to have so many noble visitors."

He might have despaired at the thought of that, but Alayne was speaking to Harry, and that instantly absorbed his full attention. "You are in the Falcon Tower, Ser Harrold. If it pleases you, I will show you to your chambers myself." Harry met her eyes, and her face lit up in a beautiful smile. _Let it please you, Harry. For the sake of peace, let it please you._

It didn't, for Harry's voice was as cold as the Wall. "Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger's bastard?"

Hadrian clenched his jaw and both hands, his heart going out towards the girl as the hope in her eyes was visibly crushed. He glared at Harry's stubbornly vicious face, just as Roland and Wallace glanced at him in mixtures of disappointment and annoyance. Lady Anya's voice was even more frigid than Harrold's had been, dripping with icy anger. "You are a guest here, Harry. See that you remember that."

His cousin didn't look the least bit ashamed, which infuriated Hadrian all the more. Lady Alayne's voice was firm, firmer than the voice of a young girl whose dreams had just been crushed had any right to be. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." She made a dignified escape the big knight had to say, turning and hurrying away as regally as any army had ever fled the field of battle. He still saw the blush of red that colored her fair face even more than the cold already had.

Lady Anya, face still holding half a glare for Harrold's rude behavior, waved a hand at Hadrian. He dutifully dismounted, reaching out and smacking his big hand across the back of Harry's head as he did so. The heir to Vale flinched and then turned to glower at Hadrian, who returned it tenfold as he quickened his pace after the fleeing maiden. _Glare all you want, you bloody fool. If I can't teach you proper behavior through example than perhaps I should beat it into you. Those knightly spurs haven't changed your brawling skills._

The reprimands would have to do for now though, as Hadrian found the bastard girl had fled much quicker than it had firstly seemed. He lengthened his pace, crunching through snow already tarnished by dozens of footprints in pursuit of the fur-trimmed cloak. He had been to the Gates of the Moon several times before in his service to Lady Waynwood, and thusly knew the direction Alayne was likely heading.

He proved correct when he came across Alayne and a stocky man with a squashed nose and square jaw in the middle of the cobblestoned path. Hadrian recognized the man instantly, for he had met him more than once on the tourney circuit; Lothor Brune, Baelish's bought man. The former freerider rarely spoke, but he was a match for Hadrian in strength, and an experienced killer on top of it. _And on Littlefinger's payroll. Harrold's betrothal be damned, I can't help but feel we ae on opposite sides of…_ whatever _is going on here._

Even so, Hadrian couldn't quite find it in himself to outright dislike Brune. He shared Hadrian's quiet nature, and had the roughly charming attribute of saying whatever crossed his mind. As the knight in crimson and white drew near, he realized Alayne Stone was experiencing that blunt nature first hand.

"Harry is an arse." It was said with such simplicity that Hadrian couldn't even try to be offended by it, in no small part because it was accurate. It also seemed to be exactly what Alayne Stone needed to hear, for she darted forward to wrap the knight in a grateful hug.

Hadrian cleared his throat as he stepped near them both. Baelish's daughter instantly released her father's sworn shield, stepping away in a moment of slight embarrassment but returning her face to the carefully blank state she'd maintained after Harry's earlier insult. Hadrian found she was even prettier at this range, and wondered why Harry had chosen this day of all days to not think with his member.

He gave a slight bow to the lady, and then a quick nod to the knight. "Lady Alayne, Ser Lothor."

Brune merely returned the nod, understanding he wasn't exactly wanted at the moment and turning away. Hadrian noted, however, that he didn't go overly far. _Hanging near in case he is needed. A good quality in any sworn shield, even a mercenary one._ As it was, Alayne Stone dipped into a perfect curtsey, neither her face nor voice giving away the pain she must be feeling at Harry's rejection. "Ser…Hadrian, was it?"

The big knight smiled. "Brune is right, you know. Harry is an arse."

Alayne's sword straight posture relaxed a little, and she returned his smile with a slight grin. "I am sure he meant no harm."

 _As diplomatic as your father I see. Not necessarily a bad trait._ "Oh he likely did, though not to you in particular. He has been in a testy mood as of late, and those tend to lead to surliness in us Hardyng men. An unfortunate family trait."

Alayne gave him a startlingly knowing smile for a girl nearly a decade his younger. "By 'as of late', you mean since he learned of our betrothal."

His smile this time was more genuine than the first two combined. "You seem a sharp one, I'll grant you that."

She curtsied again, her smile twitching in mirth. "Thank you, Ser."

The Hardyng knight chuckled at that. "As you might have gathered, I came to apologize for my cousin's behavior earlier. As I said, he is an arse at times, but I beg you not to let your first impression completely shatter your opinion of him. He is young."

" _I_ am young, Ser, even younger than Lord Harrold, yet I did nothing that requires apologizing."

"Fair point, my lady. But you also aren't heir to a Lord Paramountcy."

Her smile twitched, then became sardonic. "No, I am a bastard."

Hadrian couldn't fight the blood rushing to his face. He tried to speak thrice before he finally gave up explaining himself. "I'm butchering this apology, aren't I."

Alayne's laugh was nearly as pretty as the rest of her. _I've cheered her at the very least. I suppose not all is lost._ "Yes, Ser Hadrian, I dare say you are."

The big knight shook his head in wry amusement. "Forgive me, Lady Alayne, as well as my cousin. I promise you on my honor that we Hardyng's aren't the utter fools he and I have painted us to be. If you show Harry an ounce of the wit you've thoroughly trounced me with, you'll have him wrapped around your finger in moments."

Alayne Stone blessed him with a forgiving grin. "You have nothing to apologize for, Ser Hadrian. Your cousin…well, I will at least try to give him the benefit of the doubt, as you have requested."

"That is all I can ask, my lady. I am certain you will find him more agreeable the next time." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And if he doesn't, you need only tell me. I'll hit him over the head as many times as it takes to clear his undoubtedly clouded vision."

Her eyes twinkled as she laughed again. "Thank you, Ser Hadrian. I may well hold you to that promise in the near future."

He bowed as she curtseyed. "It would be my utmost pleasure, my lady."

Hadrian watched her go out of sight before returning to Lady Anya and her retinues. Harrold was nowhere to be found, likely for both their wellbeing; if he hadn't have insulted the girl, Hadrian wouldn't have had to have made such a fool of himself. _I'll have to train with Harry tonight. He won't enjoy it._

Hadrian stepped close to his liege lady's side as she gave orders to her men as to their quarters and provisioning. "You could have warned me about how smart she is."

The Iron Lady didn't spare him a glance, instead barking another order at Big Bolson before lowering her voice to where only he could hear it. "So it wasn't just me to get that impression."

"No. She has every bit of her father's mind."

"How badly did Harry harm things?"

"Only half as badly as I did when I tried to apologize. Though I daresay there is hope left yet, at least for Alayne. Harry however is doomed; she'll have him so entranced he'll forget which way is down." He turned and began striding for the stables, where he knew his squire would be waiting, offering one statement over his shoulder as he went. "She reminds me of Mary."

Hadrian couldn't keep the grin from his face at the thought.


End file.
